Brian Rosenberger

The Throne

It’s been called a throne,
Probably dependent on location.
At my office building and on our floor’s restrooms, 
Royalty, or Corporate Executive not withstanding,
It’s just a public toilet.

A means to an end. It does not discrimate.
Piss stains, pubic hairs, unflushed fecal deposits.
Gods and janitors, bums and priests,
pro athletes and carnival acts.

All are equal here.

Today, the asshole in the stall next to mine has gone Nuke.
At best explosive diarrhea, maybe radioactive.
At a Godzilla level.

Does it stink? Like the wet feces of a dead skunk.
Probably worse.  

I struggle not to puke.
My neighbor offers a courtesy flush.
Kudos to him for that. 
And that keeps him out of Dante’s 7th circle of Hell.

I offer him my best wishes and better dietary choices,
And sympathies to the stall’s next inhabitant.
I notice the fucker doesn’t take the time to wash his hands on exit.

No hope for humanity.

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